


Love, Rinse, Repeat

by yuzubalm



Series: A Taste of Home [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu is long suffering, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Food as Love Language, Getting Together, M/M, Miya Twins Introspective, Unresolved Romantic Tension, confronting feelings, it's a messy series of realisations and veiled confessions, no beta we die like men, the answer is...maybe, the question is - can boys communicate, there is cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuzubalm/pseuds/yuzubalm
Summary: He changed his lock-screen recently. Now, it’s a photo of a rice ball, delicately wrapped, perched in someone’s hands like it’s worth the world. He remembers the filling: salmon flakes and sesame seeds, lightly crushed and mixed with just a pinch of salt. Shaped into a triangle; wrapped in a single rectangular piece of seaweed. He remembers the taste, light and familiar, comforting. Good.The rice ball is his. The hands –The hands are Suna’s.His breath hitches.Oh.It’s there and then that it truly dawns on Osamu, washes over him like ice tea on a hot summer’s day, that oh, something has been happening, and is still happening, and he has no idea what he needs to do about it.Into new beginnings in Hyogo and out of it; into the language of love; into the meaning of food.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: A Taste of Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080620
Comments: 35
Kudos: 194
Collections: My favorite haikyuu fics, SunaOsa





	Love, Rinse, Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> [A/N: [2020.02.13] I made more minor edits to formatting etc. Sigh, fellas. I'm a real clown.
> 
> Once again, thank you Furudate-sensei for putting Suna on the national team. The amount of joy I experienced when I found out. _Unbridled._
> 
> Note: copious mentions of food, swearing, insults and name-calling, arguments and some crying. Lots of f-bombs.  
> At some point someone gets a minor injury (cut) and it’s patched up, nothing serious.
> 
> This is my first foray into HQ fic, and it won't be my last. I'm just really, really thankful that I was able to take time off to write this! Hope you enjoy!

It’s with a slight, knowing smile that Kita takes the news that he doesn’t want to play volleyball after graduating from High School.

“It’s not really a surprise to me, you know.”

“Huh?” They’re sitting in the club room, post-training, Kita nursing a bottle of cold green tea, Osamu holding his thermos flask of home-brewed barley tea. Atsumu is outside, being _Atsumu_ – crowding Aran with questions and suggestions, begging Akagi to practice with him by receiving his serves, pestering Gin and Suna to hit his tosses in what he likes to brand as _post-training-training_ – and he is here, trying to plan the next twenty years of his life.

In some strange way, they’re both doing that, in their own ways.

“I heard about your fight on Monday.” Kita’s eyes gleam with faint amusement as Osamu flushes with embarrassment. “’Course I’d know. But-” he takes a sip out of his bottle, swallowing neatly. “-that’s not the point. I’ve known for a while now, that you an’ Atsumu would take different paths someday.”

Maybe it’s because he’s graduating soon and leaving the volleyball club, but Kita seems more _fond_ these days. Or maybe their last Spring High changed all of them. “I mean,” Kita continues, “Ya told us once, food makes ya happy. And I believe that.”

The warmth of the thermos gives Osamu the courage to speak. “It ain’t just the eating,” he says with earnest. “’S the preparation, the cooking, the whole process, y’know? I wanna emulate that with my own two hands.”

“The process. Yes.” Kita closes his bottlecap with a precise twist. “Ya know this already, but volleyball ain’t the only way to live life.” He pauses. “It’s been a big part of mine, but I didn’t ever see myself doin’ it professionally. It’s a part of life, part of the process.”

Mid-thought, Kita glances at Osamu, and a second smile emerges.

“Even so,” he says, “it doesn’t make this part of my life any less important than the rest of it. An’ the same must go for you, right?”

“…Ah.” Osamu feels seen. Maybe a bit too seen. “Yeah. I’ve already made up my mind ta’ work with food, maybe start up a business. Gotta pick up the basics first, though, I guess.”

“Mm.” Kita nods, once, in understanding. “That’s good. I think Atsumu and ya are gonna turn out fine.”

Osamu considers the ruckus they made in the gym four days ago, when the third years weren’t present and he knocked Atsumu to the ground and Atsumu wrestled back. “Ya…think so? I didn’t even say anythin’ about my plans yet-”

“You don’t have to.” His senior raises a hand. “You’ve still got some time ‘ta think about it. Maybe, after you graduate, tell me then.”

Graduation for the third years is in one week. Graduation for Osamu is in one year. 

And it dawns on him, like the diffusion of tea leaves in warm water, that this might be the last serious conversation he can have with Kita while he’s still in high school without Atsumu around, so when his senior motions to pack up and leave, he catches him at the doorway at the last minute.

“Kita-san-” Osamu starts, and then stops, hesitant. “Um. Can I ask you a question?”

Their captain, soon-to-be former captain, eyes him calmly, and the floor is once again his.

“What are ya gonna do after you graduate?”

Kita’s eyes gleam once more.

“I wonder if this’ll take ya by surprise.”

———

“Hey, what did Kita-san talk to you about today?”

Suna’s scrolling his phone lazily as he walks home next to him, eyes occasionally flickering to the road ahead and back. To the common eye he radiates disinterest, but Osamu knows that asking the question alone is as clear an indication as any that he’s keenly waiting for an answer.

“Nothin’. I told Kita-san about what I wanted to do after graduation.”

“Huh.” Suna’s scrolls begin to slow. “So you sought out Kita-san’s advice.”

“Yeah.”

Osamu catches a glint of pistachio as Suna glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “…Or, were you seeking his approval?”

He ponders it over. “Maybe I was.”

Suna hums in reply.

They stop at the traffic light, as they always do, on the walk to the bus stop.

“Y’know,” Suna says, fingers paused on his screen, “I always pegged you as a foodie, but I never would’ve thought you wanted to start up a business. That’s bold.”

Osamu can’t help but let out a laugh. “Bold? It’s somethin’ I always wanted to do. Ya tellin’ me chasing my passion is bold?”

“It is, though. Idiot.” Suna huffs, shaking his head, though Osamu can make out a shadow of a smile on his face.

It’s not that chasing one’s passion is easy, Osamu thinks. It’s probably never going to be easy, and who knows what’d happen in a year, two years, ten years from now. It’s not that he’s never had doubts about choosing his path, about leaving volleyball, about venturing into something new.

But the hunger cannot be ignored, and he’s excited to chase it.

“What about ya, Suna? Are ya gonna go pro like Tsumu?”

He almost doesn’t catch it, but something clouds Suna’s expression for a split second before it smoothens out again. “I think I want to, but I don’t know yet,” Suna admits, pocketing his phone as they cross the road. “I need to think about it.”

Osamu opens his mouth to speak, but catches himself and closes it. If Suna wants to speak, he’ll speak.

They reach the bus stop in silence. It’s just the two of them today, since Atsumu insisted on completing a hundred extra serves before going home and Osamu flatly refused to participate. 

“I…” Suna tilts his head upwards and breaks the silence. “I came here two years ago, not knowing anyone in the neighbourhood or at school. The only thing I knew was volleyball. That’s been the biggest constant in my life. Don’t you think it’s weird if I want to continue to live with that constant?”

Suna’s tone is carefully neutral, Osamu notices, as he speaks, eyes trailing the sunset in the distance, and it occurs to Osamu that Suna is _unsure_. 

“It ain’t weird unless ya want it to be,” he says, quietly. Because it’s true. “You choose your own path, like how I’m choosing mine and Tsumu’s choosing his. Do ya wanna keep playing?”

Suna looks down at his shoes. “Yeah.”

He smiles. “Then it ain’t weird.”

His friend sighs, closing his eyes. “…Thanks.”

“Mmm.” He’s not sure if he should prod further, but the conversation fizzles as the next bus approaches. “Suna, I gotta go. See ya Monday?”

Suna pauses as he opens his eyes again and they make eye contact, his irises gleaming yellow-to-green in the setting sun.

He sees tea leaves diffusing, water mixing with hints of sage.

“See you Monday, Osamu.”

———

**Tsumu**

AHA! 100 serves done and dusted! Ya watch out Samu ya turd im gonna leave u in the dust!! Leave me some tamagoyaki pls

  


**Samu**

Oh Too Bad, there’s none left

  


**Tsumu**

SAMU PLEASE.

Ya wouldn’t starve ur twin brother

  


**Samu**

…

2nd shelf in the fridge.

I shoulda starved you in the womb

  


**Tsumu**

Fuck u

Also thank u

———

**Samu**

I forgot to tell you earlier

Kita-san told me he’s gonna become a farmer

  


**Suna**

Huh

Wait

You can’t just drop this piece of information on me and disappear

You will be telling me more

———

In one week, the third-years graduate.

In one week, Atsumu bawls his eyes out and refuses to let go when hugging Aran, only conceding when Kita raps him on the head and collectively surprises them by pulling them all into a hug. Cherry blossom petals fall, as do tears, when he lets go. 

In one week, Kita, Aran, Omimi and Akagi bid their farewells, and the second-years are thrust into a new level of seniority.

———

“Samu,” Atsumu says tearfully, when they’re both home after the graduation ceremony and out of hugs to give. “Promise me somethin’.”

Osamu inhales deeply. “Yeah, Tsumu?”

“No matter how far our paths diverge-” his twin sniffs. “-Samu, promise that we’ll never leave each other behind, an’ you’ll continue ter’ fight for your dreams, ‘cause I sure as hell will be, every step of the way-” At this point, he wells up with tears. “Ya better be there when I make it to the top, okay, Samu?”

Osamu says nothing, laughs, and hugs him in return.

Atsumu never mentions the incident ever again, but the next time Osamu makes him a bento, he beams and eats every item without a single complaint.

It's an unsaid promise; a lifelong guarantee.

———

In their third year of high school, Atsumu and Osamu play volleyball like their lives depend on it. Atsumu sets and serves like he’s playing for two, and Osamu wants to make the best out of his last year of the sport. They aggressively beat out the competition at the Inter-High and set their sights on the Spring High at the start of the next year, which will mark the end of Osamu’s teenage volleyball career.

Practice is fun, gruelling, and incredible all at once. Osamu knows not to take any of it for granted.

———

“Atsumu’s gone mad,” Suna pants, clutching his shirt as he stumbles to the side after one particularly punishing practice. “We’re going to die at this rate, before we reach anywhere remotely near Nationals.”

Osamu watches from afar as his brother lectures their first-years about serves to round off training. “Well, he’s tryin’.”

“Trying to kill us, that is,” Suna mutters darkly, pulling the collar of his shirt upwards to wipe his brow. “Is this what professional volleyball is gonna be like? Because if it is, I’m reconsidering.”

Osamu glances at him in interest. “Oh? So you have been thinkin’ about it.”

The darker haired boy clicks his tongue as he drops his shirt hem. “Yeah, I have,” he replies, laughing dryly. “I’m not really a monster like Atsumu, but I’ll get it done.” 

Suna’s words roll off his tongue lazily, like he’s still considering it, but Osamu notices the way his spine straightens just slightly and his eyes, in that same creamy pistachio shade, flash with a quiet determination as they narrow in their stare towards Atsumu. 

He blinks. Maybe they’re not pistachio, he thinks absentmindedly. Perhaps a pinch of olive.

“You’ll get it done, then,” he agrees.

Suna hums, meeting his gaze. “I complain and all, but, in the end, I wanna keep playing, I guess,” he says quietly. “I don’t know where it’ll take me, though.”

Something scratches at him at the back of his mind, like there’s something that he should maybe ask, but he doesn’t get to complete the thought as a volleyball whizzes past his head and smacks into the wall.

“ _Samu! Suna!_ Are ya _slackin’_??”

Osamu glances to the court to see his brother marching towards them.

“God, training is _over_ , Atsumu- no, we’re not slacking.” 

“That’s a sorry excuse, Suna! Get yer asses here so we can do some demonstrations for the first-years! Gin ‘an Kosaku are already doin’ it!”

Suna makes a face and waves him away. “Fine, fine.”

Atsumu looks pleased. “The first years are gonna be so freaked out when ya show ‘em ya freaky torso up close,” he muses with glee. “Fuckin’ bendy.”

“Dude, do you want me to participate or not?”

As the two of them follow Atsumu back to the court, Osamu decides to ask, “So, ya gonna continue ya train of thought?”

Suna shrugs. “I’ll tell you later, if you buy me a chuupet.”

———

“If we’re talkin’ about Division 1 V-League Teams,” Atsumu announces on the walk to the convenience store, “Then ya already know my first choice, Samu.”

Osamu stares at him. “No, I don’t.”

“ _What-_ but I talk about it all the time!” Atsumu whines. Technically, he’s correct, but most of it boils down to Atsumu rambling and Osamu trying to sleep, so. “Well, there’re a lotta teams to go for, but all things considered the best bet is to stay here, in Hyogo-”

“The Black Jackals,” Osamu finishes for him. “In Osaka, right?”

Atsumu gapes. “Oh, so you _were_ listenin’ after all.”

Osamu slaps the back of his head. “I’m not a shitty brother like you are.”

“Aah.” His twin rubs at the slapped spot. “Take that back.”

“Never.”

They enter the convenience store in unison.

“There’s just one thing I wanna aim for, too, Samu.”

He knows. “The Olympics.”

“Yeah.”

Atsumu is silent as he picks out a pudding cup. 

“Tobio-kun’s gonna make it there first,” he says, suddenly, eyes trained on the dessert in his hand. “I know it.”

Osamu eyes him warily. “Ya don’t know that for sure.” 

“No, but I _do_.” His twin turns to him, and Osamu almost expects him to start yelling there and then, but today, Atsumu’s eyes burn with quiet determination. “He’s good,” he says. “They’re gonna want him when 2016 rolls around. Me, I don’t think so.”

Osamu frowns.

“Not _yet_ ,” he says firmly. 

Atsumu blinks and nods, once.

“...Not yet.”

Something unsaid passes between them, and Osamu feels his resolve grow. 

“Well, then ya better get good, then,” he says.

Atsumu grins back.

“Ya fuckin’ bet.”

———

Suna’s eyes latch onto them as they exit the store, and Osamu knows what he’s waiting for.

“Hey, catch.”

He tosses the chuupet into Suna’s outstretched hands and is rewarded with a satisfied hum. “Mmm. Strawberry.”

“Ya like strawberry?” 

“Well, they’re all alright. I like the seasonal flavours sometimes.”

“Oi!” Atsumu barks from behind him. “Ya better be eatin’ proper, Suna, or else you ain’t gonna last!”

The darker-haired boy rolls his eyes as he takes a bite. “You don’t have to lecture me.”

“Oh, but I _can_ , and I _will_.” Atsumu jams his thumb to his chest proudly. “Or have ya forgotten who yer _Captain_ is?” He wiggles his brows for added effect, forgetting completely, Osamu notes with quiet amusement, that he holds zero authority whatsoever amongst the third-years.

Like clockwork, Suna promptly ignores him and takes a second, deliberate bite in his face. “Yummm,” he drawls, to Atsumu’s chagrin. Osamu hides a smirk.

“You suck,” Atsumu grumbles. “I’m gonna make ya do so many drills next practice, ya watch…”

“Abuse of power alert.” Suna glances at Osamu, glint in his eye. “Vice-captain, do something.”

Osamu nods. “Yeah, Tsumu, don’t be a tyrant.”

Atsumu groans and throws his hands towards the sky.

“ _ARAN-KUN, THEY’RE BULLYING ME!”_

———

It’s later in the night that Suna texts him, in return for the jelly stick.

**Rin**

I was going to tell you earlier, but I don’t have a lot of info to share

I was looking at teams which might have tryouts when we graduate, in between seasons

They might be scouting, too, idk

They’re based all over Japan, so I guess I’ll be moving again when the time comes

  


Osamu is tempted to call him, but it’s 11pm and Atsumu’s in the same room. 

His thumbs twitch. Atsumu doesn’t need to be a part of this conversation.

  


**Samu**

Oh

You won’t stay in Hyogo, then?

  


**Rin**

Probably not

But it’s not like I’m not used to moving, so it’ll be okay

Not that it really matters, I guess?

I mean, we’re still young, right?

  


Two questions in a row, casually sent, but Osamu senses the apprehension and hesitates.

To him, it’s simple. The Miyas have been in Hyogo for as far as he can remember. The Miya twins are born-and-raised Kansai folk, destined to grow and build their empire starting from their home turf. Osamu already knows where he wants to set up his first shop – at the corner of his favourite street in Osaka, three blocks away from his second-favourite takoyaki stall and third-favourite bakery. Osamu will start here, and expand his territory.

But Suna Rintarou is a different being, unbound by loyalty to Hyogo or anywhere, free to roam. Maybe, he thinks, it’s more difficult to be free like that.

  


**Samu**

You should follow your gut feel, Rin

If ya wanna do it, go for it

But ya know the Miyas will always be around in Hyogo, if ya wanna come back

  


_Come back_ , Osamu muses over his words. He hopes that the three years he’s spent here will make him want to come back. 

  


**Rin**

I know

Thanks, Samu

  


**Samu**

Gdnight

Don’t sleep so late all the time

  


“Oh my god, Samu, ya type too loud,” Atsumu complains from the bottom bunk as he flips over.

“…Goodnight to you too, Tsumu.”

  


**Rin**

Naggy

Goodnight

———

In a nutshell, their third year together goes something like this: one of them buys a snack and shares it with the other to trigger a conversation. They share about their plans, Suna shows Osamu player profiles and V-league matches, and Osamu shows Suna recipes and inspirations. Sometimes they study, sometimes they play volleyball, sometimes they don’t.

Sometimes they don’t talk about careers, but about Suna’s little sister and Atsumu’s latest antics. Sometimes they sit in class, or in the locker room, or at the school rooftop. Sometimes they hang out on the swings in the nearby park. Sometimes, they eat dinner together. Sometimes they go to each other’s houses.

Sometimes, Osamu cooks.

“ _Oyako don_ ,” he says proudly, pushing the bowl delicately across the table. “It’s a simple dish, but it’s good. ‘S heart-warmin’. Try it.”

Suna eyes him, then the bowl in front of him, and shifts in his seat. “…Huh.”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me, try it.” Osamu leans back against the kitchen counter and folds his arms, glancing at him expectantly.

“Okay, but sit down here. Don’t just watch me eat, it’s weird.” Suna gestures to the table, and he complies, taking the seat opposite as the other boy pokes his spoon through the rice and scoops upwards into the fluffy layer of egg. A puff of steam wafts out languidly as Suna raises it carefully and casts a glance at him.

 _Thank you for the food_. 

Osamu nods, and Suna puts it in his mouth, lips following the smooth curve of the utensil as he pulls it out gently.

“Samu,” Suna says slowly, swallowing. “This is good.” He scoops again and takes another bite. “I’m serious, I like this.”

“Learned from the best: my mom.”

“Mmm.” Suna’s on his third bite. “My mom makes good tamagoyaki, though when I was a kid she’d make me onigiri to bring to school.” Fourth bite. “Okay, if you don’t stop me I’ll finish it.”

“I haven’t eaten yet. C’mere.” Suna deposits the spoon back into the bowl and Osamu picks it up, gently scooping a portion into his mouth.

He is rewarded. The white rice is fluffy and warm, as is the egg; the chicken is tender and seasoned; paired with chopped onions, the dish is complete in and of itself. It reminds him of the comfort of his mother’s cooking, the relief that comes at the end of the long day; it is affection, gentle, simple and clean. 

Osamu smiles. Above all, a taste like this reminds him of _home_.

When he looks up again, Suna’s staring, slightly off-guard. Today, he thinks, his eyes are warmer and less green, more like roasted barley tea.

“Hmm?” He puts the spoon down with a soft _clink_ , and Suna’s eyes widen momentarily before levelling again.

“Nothing, I…” Suna blinks. “You’re very respectful of food, I realised.”

“Well, yeah. ‘M not like Tsumu, who _gobbles_.” Osamu makes a face. “Gotta appreciate the food proper, not shove it in yer mouth like some goblin.”

Suna raises a brow, amused. “You’re making Atsumu out to be such a monster, Samu.”

Osamu snorts. “I’m only statin’ facts, Rin.”

———

Later, as they clean up, Suna turns to him.

“I think you’re right,” he says, quietly. “It _is_ a heart-warming dish.” 

Belatedly, Osamu realises he washed only one spoon.

———

Three weeks later, he tries making something different, like a baked cheesecake.

Suna nods approvingly on the first bite. “Oh, this one I’d order.” He whips out his phone to take a picture, sidling the plate in another angle. “Ah, I bit into it already…”

Osamu laughs. “Relax, I can give ya another slice or two. Bring it back home to share with your sister, maybe?”

Suna perks up from his crouched position, phone sliding into his pocket. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” The alternative is that Atsumu has access to half a cake, so, really, this is the superior option. “Also, ya seem to like it, so.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the warm light in his kitchen, but the tips of Suna’s ears seem to grow slightly pink. “Is this why you decided to talk to the bakery owner yesterday?” he asks. “D’you want to become a pastry chef or something?”

“Not in particular,” Osamu muses. “But why not? The lady in charge used to work at a sushi restaurant downtown. Now, she’s a baker. In between, she owned a soba shop. Isn’t that cool?”

“Wow, that’s a variety.”

“See, that’s the point. I wanna learn how to do everything, from washing rice to cleaning countertops to running a business. No shortcuts, I gotta learn it properly. And I gotta do it from scratch.”

“Hmm.” Suna laughs, genuinely and softly, a rarity of a sound that Osamu registers as _nice_. “You sound like Atsumu when you gush about chefs, except that Atsumu’s a volleyball idiot, so he only gushes about volleyball.” He glances at him as the corners of his lips tilt to form a slight smile. “You, you’re a bit of a gourmet idiot.”

Osamu smiles back. “Is that a good thing?”

Remnants of laughter remain on Suna’s face. His eyes today are a blend of earthy sage. 

“That’s up to you to decide.” 

———

**Rin**

[image]

The cake was really good. She cried when she ate it

  


**Samu**

Haha

That’s high praise

  


**Rin**

[link]

have you ever made French onion soup?

I think it’ll go well with your hayashi rice recipe

———

At some point in time, it settles into a habit, just like everything else. Morning runs are every alternate day. Volleyball practice is thrice a week, once every alternate weekend. Homework is, regrettably, daily.

Osamu packs bentos to school two times a week. Atsumu tries, once, and gives up. 

Suna comes over once a week to taste-test. 

It’s a habit.

———

The Miyas visit Kita’s traditional family home at the end of the summer holidays, by invitation of Kita’s grandmother who is five feet tall and carries the warmth of a thousand suns in her smile.

“Come in,” she says to them kindly, as they stand meekly at her doorway. “Shin-chan’s tendin’ to the crops but he’ll be here in a minute, if ya don’t mind waitin’.”

Next to him, Atsumu stutters. “U-Uh, of course, Obaa-chan.”

No more than a minute later, as they’re nursing cups of tea, the door slides open and Kita emerges, sun hat in hand, specks of black and white intermingling as he flicks through windswept hair. “Sorry to keep ya waitin’,” he says, kneeling onto the floor with familial ease, before breaking into a wide smile. “It’s good ta see you two.”

The three of them chat, about Inarizaki High, about volleyball, about the twins’ mother and Kita’s grandmother, about Kita’s venture into hydroponics and part-time studies. Even though Osamu has been privy to Kita’s post-graduation activity, it still amazes him each time he hears about it. Kita’s choice to take his top-percentile grades and invest it in _food production_ , the backbone of human society, is so overwhelmingly inspirational that he gets stumped thinking about it every now and then. 

“For now, I help out at the farm,” Kita says, gesturing to the back, which opens up to a wide pasture. “A lot of economics actually goes behind farmin’ y’know.” He turns to them. “So, your studies are still important, no matter what goal ya pursue.”

They instinctively straighten up. “Y’know us, Kita-san,” Atsumu says eagerly. “We’ll keep our promise to ya.” _To be juniors that you can be proud of,_ he leaves unsaid. 

Kita glances at them, twinkle in his eye. “I sure hope so.”

He asks about school, about their teammates, and about Osamu’s cooking, at which point Osamu decides to ask Kita for one piece of advice, if he would.

“Hmmm.” Kita takes a sip. “If I had ta say just one thing…learn to love what ya do.”

He and Atsumu glance at him in unison. “Huh?”

Kita tilts the cup in his hands by a fraction as he frowns in thought. “If ya have a job, ya do it every day, and ya see it through,” he says slowly, rotating the cup, watching the tea slowly settle on the edges like baby waves lapping the shore. “But if you start ‘ta think it’s a chore, then you should think about what really makes it a chore.” 

He looks at them, stills his movement, and the liquid falls into place. 

“If that happens, take that element, an’ change somethin’ about it, so that you love what you do again.”

It’s not just passion, but _discipline_ , Osamu realises, that makes a process work. The way Kita wakes up at 5 in the morning every weekday. The way Atsumu tosses the ball a hundred times every night. The way they dedicate themselves to the art that they seek to master. He’ll be doing it, too.

———

Love, rinse, repeat.

———

It’s a habit.

———

**Samu**

Kita-san gave me some new produce today

[image]

  


**Rin**

O

Wow, he gave you a whole melon?

And fresh eggs, too

  


**Samu**

Yeah, it’s amazing, the farm

And Kita-san seems happy

  


**Rin**

That’s nice to hear, I guess

More importantly, did you guys manage to find any baby pics 

  


**Osamu**

Sadly, none…?

  


**Rin**

Dammit

We’ll get him next time

  


**Samu**

**__**_We_? Ya weren’t even there, Rin

Come with us next time

He asked about you too, y’know

  


**Rin**

Maybe I’ll go when I have my life more put together

Kita-san has a really good bullshit detector

  


**Samu**

Don’t tell me yer scared of Kita-san

  


**Rin**

…Aren’t you? 

  


**Samu**

…Fair point.

Anyway, come by for melon tomorrow, if ya wanna

  


**Rin**

Okay

Night, Samu 

———

The transition from summer to autumn takes place on the school rooftop over lunch, with Atsumu in tow. 

“It’s gettin’ too cold to have lunch here,” Atsumu whines. “Can we eat elsewhere next time?”

Osamu doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “Y'know you can leave anytime, ya know,” he says, whipping out two bento boxes and one mini lunchbox, passing one bento to Atsumu and the smaller box to Suna. Suna receives the lunchbox atop a second, slightly larger box and settles next to Atsumu, who sticks his tongue out.

“Rude.” Atsumu opens his bento box and quickly perks up, excited. “Woah – _Samu_! The fabled cheese tamagoyaki!”

He smirks. “Knew you’d like that.”

“ _Samuuuuu_.” He chomps down and chews, grinning. “’S even better than the one from before!”

“Aww, mine’s just potato salad,” Suna says.

“Yes, _as requested_ , if I might remind ya,” Osamu rolls his eyes as Suna snickers. “Now, eat.”

Suna continues to eye their bentos as he scrapes off the top layer of fluffed potato and collects it in the fold of his tongue. “Mmm. Carrots?”

“Just a little, diced.”

Suna hums. “Better than peas.”

The three of them chat idly about various topics – the upcoming Spring High lineup, Kita’s alumni article on the importance of sustainable farming (which Osamu makes a point to bookmark), Aran’s new team, and Atsumu’s latest Instagram selfie.

“I mean, yer just tryin’ too hard with this pose, Tsumu.”

“What-” Atsumu grabs his phone. “Ya jerk! Ya didn’t even like that pic!”

Osamu snatches it back. “Well, yeah, ‘cause I don’t like it.”

Atsumu grumbles. “Well, I don’t give a shit. Lotsa people liked it. Kita-san liked it. Aran-kun liked it. Even Shoyo-kun liked it. I don’t care about ya.”

“And yet, you still don’t have as many followers as Sakusa,” Suna quips, waving his phone at him, “and he only has ten posts.”

Atsumu’s face goes red. “This one's not even a good photo,” he fumes, jabbing his finger at Suna’s screen. “It’s just a photo of him eatin’ an egg sandwich!”

“Ah,” Osamu points. “His profile pic’s nicer than yours, too.”

Objectively, Atsumu’s Instagram profile is pretty loaded. He takes decent selfies and has a considerable following. But Japan’s High School Volleyball _King_ Sakusa Kiyoomi has a professional photo from Volleyball Monthly as a profile picture and consistently has six more followers than him. Atsumu thinks it’s a conspiracy.

“Ugh, whatever.” Atsumu jams a fishcake into his mouth. “Ya lucky yer a good cook, Samu, or else I’d be way more mad today.”

Osamu smirks, watching his brother begrudgingly enjoy his meal, and turns to Suna, whose eyes occasionally flicker from his phone to Osamu’s bento with veiled interest. Today, under direct sunlight, his eyes shine with a hint of lime. “Ya want somethin’?”

“Hm?” Suna’s eyes dart to his bento again before meeting his gaze, just slow enough for Osamu to realise that he’s fixated on the remaining half-block of tamagoyaki sitting in the corner. “I’m just thinking.”

Suna’s concentration over his homecooked eggs tickles him. “You can just ask, ya know,” Osamu says, lifting his chopsticks and placing a piece in Suna’s lunchbox. “Try it.”

Suna gazes at the piece of egg with momentary reverence before taking it in his mouth. “Thank you,” he says, just loud enough for Osamu to hear.

And then, a bit louder, “Oh, shit.”

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Suna scoops himself up from the floor, sweeping up his things in one swift motion. “Just remembered that Sensei asked me to come in early for the next period to help with the worksheets. Ugh.” He sighs as he makes to leave. “I’ll see you at class, then.”

“Wash the box before ya return it, ‘kay.”

Suna waves his hand casually as he descends the stairs.

When Osamu turns back to take another bite, he realises that Atsumu’s just silently gaping at him. “…What.”

“Ya just…” Atsumu blinks, twice. “Ya know. Didja just…do _that_?” 

Osamu stares back, confused. “Do what?”

Atsumu shakes his head rapidly. “No, lemme demonstrate-” He stretches out to grab a piece of egg from Osamu’s bento, to which Osamu promptly swats his hand away. Atsumu gestures wildly.

“Ya see? Ya don’t let me take your food, ever. Or anyone.”

Osamu frowns. “Yeah, and?”

Atsumu stares at him as though he’s just announced that he’ll never eat bread again. 

“But ya just gave Suna a piece. Willingly. He didn’t even ask. Ya just-” Atsumu replicates the chopstick movement. “-did.”

Oh. Well, that he did. 

“And so what if I did?” he replies, because he’d be damned before he lets Atsumu have the final word.

Atsumu sputters incoherently in response. “ _Wha_ \- ya really _-Samu_.” He points at Osamu accusingly with his chopsticks. “Since _when_ have you been okay with sharin’ food with anyone at all?”

Osamu ignores the warmth creeping up the back of his neck. “’S not like I’ve not let him do that before,” he mutters, taking another bite. “I cook sometimes. We share food.”

“Ya _cook_ for him? Okay, I know that already, but ya _share food_ with him? Next thing I know, ya gon- _oh_.” Something seems to dawn on Atsumu, like a fresh egg spreading over the surface of a hot frying pan, and he drops his arm, mouth hanging open, forming a perfect circle. “ _Ohhh. Osamuuuu._ ”

Osamu is, predictably, annoyed. 

“Tsumu, _what_?”

Atsumu claps his hands across his cheeks and purses his mouth shut. “’M not sayin’ anything.”

Osamu narrows his eyes. “’Cause there’s nothing to say.”

“Nope. There’s somethin’ to unpack here, alright.”

Osamu doesn’t know why he feels the need to explain himself to this idiot. “Nothing’s happening,” he says, because that’s exactly the truth. Literally nothing is happening because it’s perfectly normal, what they have. Normal people eat together and share food together. Maybe Osamu doesn’t share food with his brother, or with anyone else, because he’s possessive over food like that – yes, his one flaw – but that doesn’t make it weird if he decides that he wants to share with Suna, right? Don’t they teach kids in school that sharing is caring? Shouldn’t Atsumu be proud of him?

And normal people cook for each other, right? Granted, not everyone can cook, not everyone has a kitchen, and not everyone has a passion for cooking like he does, but it’s alright, isn’t it? He’s an aspiring chef, for Christ’s sake, of course he’s going to cook. Can’t friends hang out at each other’s houses, one-on-one, to talk and test recipes and share cutlery, anyway? Is it so bad that he enjoys watching each quiet smile or look of wonderment unfold in real time, softly affirming that the food he cooks genuinely brings joy? 

So, is it okay, continuing to cook with the knowledge that his homemade food has such an effect on someone whose expression is almost always so carefully blank; someone who, beneath that detached exterior, is unexpectedly warm; when Osamu is the recipient of that rare affection-

Atsumu looks like he’s calling to him, but it’s not registering with Osamu. Nothing is registering, just like how _nothing is happening_. 

He repeats this out loud. As though that changes anything. 

“Yer-” Atsumu stops and sighs, shaking his head again. “Forget it. Yer an idiot, Samu. Figure it out yerself.” He picks up his chopsticks again, grumbling under his breath, leaving Osamu to digest his thoughts alone.

The warmth which crawled up his neck earlier stubbornly remains.

———

There really isn’t any time to unpack what Atsumu has now obnoxiously (and unilaterally) nicknamed “ _the House Husband Effect_ ”, because Nationals are coming and so are exams; not to mention that by default, no attention whatsoever should be paid to Atsumu because he is Atsumu.

Today, the same Atsumu has abandoned his books and hovers around Osamu while he tries to complete some revision for the upcoming exams, which, he notes, they _both_ have. He wants to relocate, but it’s his room. _Their_ room. Regrettably, Atsumu is a communist when it comes to personal space.

“You text Suna a lot, eh.”

Atsumu says it like it’s a statement, not a question. Osamu bristles at the insinuation, whatever it may be. He doesn’t want to hear it from him.

“Whaddya want, Tsumu.”

“’M just sayin’, Samu,” his brother drawls. “Every other night ya look at ya phone and it’s him yer talking to, isn’t it?”

“Alright, ‘s not a crime to text people on your phone.”

“But ya _do_ text him.”

As if on cue, his phone vibrates, and Osamu swipes it off the table before Atsumu can grab it. He checks the lock screen – a few notifications, nothing important – and nothing from Suna, whom Osamu remembers has to accompany his younger sister to her dance recital this evening. 

Atsumu shoves himself onto his back and peeks over his shoulder before he can dump his phone into his pocket, and apparently finds something interesting to jabber about, because he immediately facepalms. “‘Oh, Samu, c’mon now.”

He stares down at his lock screen again. It’s a photo of a good beef bowl held up to the camera. He remembers that it was good, because the layering of the meat was particularly delicate and the sauce turned out nicely that day. “What?”

Atsumu jabs at the corner of the screen and stares at him, like it’s obvious. “Those are Suna’s hands.”

“Yer real a weirdo, Tsumu, recognizing people’s fingers like that,” Osamu retorts, because fuck the guy, of _course_ it’s Suna’s hands that Atsumu recognizes on sight on a slightly-cracked, four-inch long smartphone screen.

Atsumu clicks his tongue, grinning. “Aw, so it _is_ him.”

“What, so I can’t have Rin hold a bowl of rice for me, now?”

“Oh, it’s _Rin_ now, issit?” 

Oh, Osamu knows he has the strength to sock him in the face. Unfortunately, Atsumu is their team captain and Japan’s top high school setter, possible future Olympic candidate; and also, his twin brother. So, he won’t. He _can_ , but he _won’t_. 

“It’s been _Rin_ for a long time, Tsumu, and ya know that,” he snaps, slapping his face away. “Whaddya want from me?”

“I mean, I’m just curious,” his brother says, rubbing his cheek and shrugging his shoulders. “How long are ya gonna dance around each other before somethin’ really happens?”

Osamu says nothing and flicks a pen at him, eliciting a yelp. “Ugh, jerk!” Atsumu scowls at him. “Look at ya, avoidin’ all the hard questions.”

He opens his mouth to argue back, but Atsumu has a point and he knows it. He tends to avoid thinking about it in favour of more present thoughts, like his next meal, their upcoming exams, and their final Spring High. 

“It’s not so easy, ya know.” Because it really isn’t. Unpicking his thoughts is like preparing a meal. Ingredients have to be carefully selected and measured, prepared with care, put together in a pan that’s at the right temperature, at the right time, to create a unanimous flavour. It’s about timing, technique, and raw feel.

It’s…complicated.

Maybe, just maybe, him putting this off is going to blow up in his face at some point in time, but there’s only so much that Osamu can handle when so many parts of his life are moving at the same time. 

_Suna asks him, once, “When I leave, am I still going to be able to try your cooking?_ ”

_He replies, “You can always come back.”_

_Suna puts a single slice of carrot in his mouth and sets the pair of chopsticks back onto the bowl. He’s quiet._

_“You think I’d travel a thousand miles just to eat this again?”_

_Osamu glances at him. That day, his eyes are a cloudy jade._

_Maybe, just maybe, he would._

Back in the present, his brother eyes him suspiciously as they fall into silence before finally dropping himself back into his seat.

“After Nationals,” he says, crossing his arms. “We’re gonna talk about this.”

Osamu sighs.

“Fine. After Nationals.”

———

They meet, and beat, Karasuno on the third day of the Spring High, in a raucous set of three. The tournament’s not even over, but Osamu lets himself be proud of his school, himself, and more importantly, his brother, whose Number 1 jersey sticks out brighter than ever under the stadium spotlights. 

In the distance, he swears he can make out Aran sobbing in the front row of the bleachers, Kita patting him on the shoulder.

When they reach out to shake their opponents’ hands, they meet them respectfully. Their new captain, Ennoshita, gracefully accepts the loss. He reminds him and Atsumu a bit of Kita-san.

“Those were some sick jump floaters today,” he says to the freckled boy, who looks tired, but gives him a small, earnest smile anyway. 

“You guys played well,” he replies. “As expected of the Miya Twins.”

His next exchange is perhaps slightly less pleasant. “Good luck surviving Day 3,” the bespectacled middle blocker says to him, gaze razor-sharp despite the exhaustion that he wears visibly across his shoulders. “You know how our previous year went.”

Oh, Osamu will never forget how their previous year went. 

He grins. “We won’t disappoint ya, Karasuno.”

———

Tokyo nights in January are, as they were last year and the year before, frigid, lonely, and contemplative.

Atsumu shivers as the wind blows. “Gah, jesus.” He grips onto the sleeves of his jacket. “Fuckin’ Tokyo.”

“Hyogo’s just as cold at this time of the year,” Osamu points out to him, which Atsumu blatantly ignores. “Don’t catch a chill before tomorrow’s match, dumbass.”

“I won’t.” Atsumu scowls. “’M not dumb. I got layers and layers on.”

“Yeah, alright.” Osamu sighs, a faint puff of air escaping his lips as he stares back into the night sky. “Whatever.”

“…It’s late.”

“…Yeah.”

They stand at the balcony in silence, neither of them making to leave. The wind whistles in Osamu’s ear.

“So, this is it, huh,” Atsumu says. “The start of the end.”

Osamu doesn’t turn to look at him. “Yeah, it is.”

“I’m gonna miss it, y'know.” 

“Miss…me?”

“Everything.” Next to him, Atsumu sighs. “High school tournaments like these, playin’ with the team, playin’ with ya…messin’ around…it won’t ever be the same.”

Osamu can’t help but huff a laugh.

“Yeah, it won’t ever be the same, but that ain’t a bad thing, Tsumu.”

“Mmm.” Atsumu glances up, towards the night sky, and as Osamu glances at him he spots the pensive look on his face. “I know.” 

“Ya gonna set for Japan’s greatest, Tsumu.” Osamu’s smirk softens as he punches his arm. “Ya gonna have a blast. And who knows, maybe you’ll do it for our teammates again, in the V-League or at the Olympics. So take that damn first step and make a name for yerself.”

For a second, his brother looks like he’s going to cry. “Who needs memories, ain’t it right,” he says thickly as he pushes himself up against the railing. ““Don’t ya get left behind then, Samu.”

“’Course not. And don’t ya get so sappy on us so quickly.”

His brother slaps his back as he turns to leave, but it’s gentle. “Ya jerk. Come back in soon.”

For a minute, the atmosphere is silent, save for the occasional sounds of the city and late-night traffic below. Tokyo is cold in the month of January, made colder by the absence of people in the vicinity, the unfamiliar layout of streets and buildings spanning his view. 

He has always preferred warmth – the warmth of a kotatsu in the living room; the warmth of oden from the corner convenience store; the warmth of a rice bowl, freshly cooked – 

His fingers curl and interlock, slowly, left thumb resting above his right. In the pocket in between his hands, it’s still warm. 

“…Ah.”

In that moment, the door behind him slides open with a soft _thunk_ , breaking Osamu’s train of thought, and he glances back only to see one Suna Rintarou, dressed in plain grey sweats and a black Inarizaki hoodie, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Oh, Rin.” His name rolls off his tongue easily, embarrassingly easily.

Suna nods in greeting. “Reminiscing about your volleyball days already?” he asks, teasing. “It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Tsumu was, earlier. I’m just thinking.”

Suna hums and slots himself next to him, leaning against the railing. _About what_ , Osamu almost expects him to ask, but he simply tilts his head to look at him.

“Are you gonna go back in now, then?”

“No, I’ll just stand here for a little while more.”

“Okay. Then I hope you don’t mind my company for five minutes.”

He doesn’t, really.

“What’re doin’ here, then?”

“I don’t know.” Suna exhales, breath faintly visible. “I couldn’t sleep. It’s normal.”

“Mmm. It’s late, ya know.”

“…I know.”

The moon shines brightly from overhead, signalling the lateness of the hour. Osamu glances down at his phone. _12.02 AM_ , it reads. _25 January_.

 _Ah._ “Hey, Rin?”

The other boy turns to glance at him. “Hmm?”

Osamu smiles at him.

“Happy birthday.”

Suna stares, momentarily stunned. His eyes, tonight, are softer than usual; more almond than they are pistachio (perhaps a blend of the two; a creamy mixture).

“Ah.” He mumbles, looking away, cheeks faintly tinged with pink, perhaps from the cold. “I almost forgot.”

“Ya almost forgot?” Osamu laughs. “It’s kinda hard to forget yer own birthday.”

“I know, it’s just, Nationals and all that.” He looks at Osamu, again. _But you remembered_ , his eyes seem to say _._

“Still.” Osamu nudges his shoulder. “Worth rememberin’.”

Suna smiles back, faintly, and Osamu feels his cheeks go warm. 

“Thanks, Samu,” he says, quietly, eyes not leaving his gaze.

Osamu doesn’t look away, doesn’t really want to. “…Anytime, Rin.”

The silence between the two of them stretches out until Suna clears his throat and breaks the gaze. “I’m, um, going back inside,” he mumbles, sinking into his hoodie. “We should sleep before Kita-san murders us.”

“Oh, so ya came here to get yer birthday greetings, and that’s it?”

Suna laughs as he leans away from the railing. It’s mildly affectionate. “No. Come inside, it’s getting too cold.”

“Alright, alright.” Osamu watches as Suna steps back in, leaving the door ajar for him to follow. He glances at his phone again. _12.06 AM._ Well, it’s about time, he supposes-

He freezes, and stares at what he’s seeing.

He changed his lock-screen recently. Now, it’s a photo of a rice ball, delicately wrapped, perched in someone’s hands like it’s worth the world. He remembers the filling: salmon flakes and sesame seeds, lightly crushed and mixed with just a pinch of salt. Shaped into a triangle; wrapped in a single rectangular piece of seaweed. He remembers the taste, light and familiar, comforting. Good.

The rice ball is his. The hands – 

The hands are Suna’s.

His breath hitches.

_Oh._

It’s there and then that it truly dawns on Osamu, _washes_ over him like ice tea on a hot summer’s day, that _oh,_ something _has_ been happening, and is _still_ happening, and he has no idea what he needs to do about it. 

Damn him. Damn Atsumu. Damn it all.

Suna knocks tentatively at the door, and he pulls his gaze away from his phone. “It’s late,” he says. “Come back in.”

He nods, swallowing, as he steps back inside. His fingers brush against the back of Suna’s hoodie.

“C’mon.”

———

They place third in the nation. It’s not first place, which Atsumu strongly laments, but when Kita hugs him and tells him he’s proud of him, he bursts into tears and doesn’t whine about it like that again.

Just like that, the volleyball chapter of his life draws to a close, and the rest of his life begins. 

———

“So,” Atsumu says to him one night, “Ya gonna, y’know, say something?” 

He doesn’t elaborate, but his pointed stare says everything. Osamu sighs.

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.” 

Atsumu groans and sits up in his bed to peer up at him. “’S only complicated ‘cause ya make it out to be. Just ask him out or somethin’ already.”

“Okay, and if he says no?”

“ _Wha_ \- Samu, for fuck’s sake, he’s not gonna fuckin’ say _no_.”

“It’s just…complicated.” Osamu frowns. “I don’t think I can. Ya don’t get it, Tsumu.”

Atsumu folds his arms. “Tell me what I don’t get.”

He shakes his head. “We have our separate paths to follow, and they’ll bring us to different places. You think-” he exhales. “-we can keep things the same way, after the bubble of high school? When we start workin’ and all that?”

“Well, they don’t hafta stay the same, do they? You said that to me yourself, ya dunce.”

“Yeah, I-” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “-I dunno, Tsumu. What if it doesn’t work out?”

Atsumu stares blankly at him.

“So, what? You're sayin’ yer not willing to take that risk?”

Osamu opens his mouth to retort, but stops short when he realises why things are the way they are.

He’s _afraid_.

Atsumu huffs, and lies back in his bed with a _thump_.

“Thought so, ya coward. Well, make up yer mind. We graduate in a month.”

———

It comes, very quickly, before he realises it. 

The end of the school year. The end of volleyball. Graduation.

_“Are you okay?” Suna asks him, two Fridays before graduation, sitting on his kitchen counter._

_“’M fine.” Osamu wipes his hands against the kitchen towel. “Why d’you ask?”_

_“Nothing, I-” Suna frowns. “You just seem…occupied.”_

_“I…” Osamu watches as the other boy slowly swirls the cup of tea in his hands. “I’m thinking. About the future.”_

_“Uh huh.” Suna’s voice is flat, but his eyes watch him carefully. “And what’s in your future?”_

_Osamu says only what’s certain. “I’ll start working at the bakery,” he says, “for six months, at least. I’ll learn everything I can.” He glances at him. “And you?”_

_“The season doesn’t begin until later in the year,” Suna says. “So I’ll work towards that, and…” He trails off and lifts the cup to his lips._

_I’ll miss you if you go, Osamu wants to say. Come visit me, maybe, or Will you come back and try my cooking?_

_“Good luck,” Osamu says instead, because Atsumu is right, he’s a coward._

_Suna swallows._

_“Okay,” he replies, quietly._

_His eyes, that day, swirl a cloudy hue._

———

This year, graduation falls on a Monday.

———

Suna absentmindedly kicks a pebble along the road as he and Osamu walk home. 

“Three months,” he says, “and I’ll be off.” 

“Three months,” Osamu echoes. It sounds like a lot of time, but it isn’t, really. “Ya gonna be trainin’ and stuff?”

“Yups. Tryouts aren’t actually until the end of next month, so I guess I’ll be training until then.” Suna tilts his head. “Might still see more of Atsumu, since he’ll be around until the Black Jackals pick him up.”

“Aw. Tough luck.”

He shrugs. “Eh, I’ll be fine.”

Osamu contemplates his companion as they continue walking along the footpath. It’s normal – the route, the banter, the pace – but something’s off. Every now and then he catches Suna glancing at him, then glancing away, through the corner of his eyes. Osamu has come to recognize it as a nervous tic.

They cross the road, and turn left, bus stop distantly in sight.

“Shizuoka,” Suna suddenly says. 

“Huh?”

“The…uh.” Suna tucks his hands into his pockets. ‘The EJP Raijin reached out to me last week. I might go and play for them.” He glances at Osamu. “In Shizuoka.”

“Oh.” Osamu blinks. That’s a V-League Division 1 Team. “Rin- ya didn’t tell me- that’s really good!”

“Yeah,” Suna mumbles. “Yeah, they uh, want me to go over in three months.”

This, Osamu realises, is where their paths seem to diverge, from food to sport, from Hyogo to Shizuoka.

“Are ya ready?” He asks, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. “To make the move?”

“I guess.” Suna shakes his head. “I was going to say something to you when they called me, but I didn’t wanna say anything until I was sure. And I’m still gonna go for their tryouts, because, you know. Gotta do it properly.”

“Wow, Kita-san really rubbed off on ya.”

“Isn’t that the case for us all?” He huffs a laugh. “I just wanna make sure I’m up to standard.”

Osamu glances at him.

“Ya are,” he says, quietly.

Suna shifts in his sweater.

“So...anyway.” Suna stops in his tracks, and turns to face him. “This is it. Thank you, I guess.”

Osamu stops, too, the bus stop just a couple of meters away from them. “Thanking me? Here?” _This is it?_

“I can’t go over today. Look, I-“ Suna twists his fingers over themselves, folding over the sleeves of his sweater, looking as nervous as Osamu feels. “Thanks for feeding me this year. You’re good at cooking, y’know.”

Osamu’s heartbeat thrums rapidly in his ears. It’s Friday. He was going to cook. “Rin, thanks...what...?” 

“I really think that you’re going to be alright,” Suna continues. “And I think that all the people who will get to taste your food are gonna be so lucky.”

It’s a bit uncharacteristic, Osamu thinks, of Suna to say all of this to him, unbridled, but what’s actually alarming is that he can hear a small tremor in his voice that has never, ever been there. 

It feels like he’s on the verge of losing something, but he doesn’t know _what_. 

“Why do ya gotta make it sound like we’ll never see each other again?” He tries to joke, but the feeling of the bead of cold sweat running down the side of his face reinforces the rising panic in his chest. He clamps his hands together. “We’re graduatin’, not dyin’.”

Suna doesn’t meet his eye. “Well,” he says, “I don’t know. Will we?” He toes the gravel with the tip of his shoe. “Will we see each other again?”

The question is weighted, and it weighs on Osamu’s conscience like a forty-kilo sack of rice. _Of course we will, you’re being dramatic_ , he wants to say, but the words jam in his throat.

“If- if you want to-”

“But what is it that _you_ want?”

Suna’s staring at him now, eyes wide, searching, and Osamu draws a complete blank. 

Fuck, he doesn’t know. The impulsive part of him wants to hold his hands in his and tell him that maybe, they should hang out more, just the two of them, and do what they’ve been doing but more, and he’ll cook for him and watch him light up at the first bite - but he _can’t_ say that, because he can’t promise that. 

“I don’t know,” he ends up confessing. “I don’t know what I want, and what I can give.”

It’s not a confession, Osamu realises. It’s an apology. A coward’s apology. 

Suna’s gaze remains fixed on him, his eyes a bitter, bitter green. 

“I know,” he says, finally. “That’s why I said thank you.”

He turns, walks to the bus stop, and waves down Osamu’s bus from afar.

Osamu’s eyes widen as he rushes to him. “Rin, wait, we-” he stops short, just a meter behind. “-what are we?”

Suna looks at him, and for a split second his eyes seem to cloud up. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “We’re friends, aren’t we, Samu?”

Osamu stares back at him. “…Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

Suna doesn’t look away. “Alright,” he whispers. “Then, we’re friends.”

He steps up to him as the bus approaches and, with less than a meter of space between them, hesitates. Osamu watches, frozen.

Wordlessly, Suna reaches an arm out and, gently, picks a single cherry blossom petal out of his hair. 

Something pricks at Osamu’s heart. 

“There,” Suna murmurs, as the petal floats out of his palm and onto the ground. “I’m sorry, I…”

Osamu wants to say many things, like _don’t be sorry_ , and _I’m the one who should be sorry_ , and _can we talk, we need to talk,_ but his throat is constricted and all he can manage is a strangled “it’s okay”.

Something crosses Suna’s expression before it smooths out again. “Okay,” he says, and the waver in his voice is barely there. Just barely. “Okay, see you, Samu.”

“Rin, I-”

“Your bus is here,” Suna points behind him abruptly, and sure enough, the bus is at the stop. “It’s okay. See you next week?”

They graduate next week. He knows this.

“See you,” Osamu echoes, but by the time he turns back, Suna is gone.

———

Graduation, for Osamu, is fairly uneventful. Atsumu, the sap he is, cries and hugs everyone that will let him. 

Today, everyone lets him, because tomorrow, they go their separate ways.

Cherry blossoms are in bloom. Today, after the farewells, petals are scattered everywhere on the school grounds. 

He and Atsumu go home together, and Osamu makes them matching tuna onigiris.

“Tsumu,” he mumbles, as he holds the onigiri in his hands. “Did I mess up?”

Atsumu glances at him, and sighs.

“I can’t say.”

———

The bakery he works at is really nice. It’s clean and quaint; they make good bread and excellent pastries that have their own pre-order list. The coffee’s also aromatic and popular with the residents in the area.

It’s a lot of work. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“ _Miya!_ ” His boss calls to him from the front counter. “I need your help to peel those fruits!”

Fresh fruit tarts, Osamu soon realises upon being hired, is the boss’s favourite dessert to make, and within days he’s swept up learning, from scratch, how to make tart crust, custard, and jam. It all starts from the ingredients, though, so he learns first how to pick fruits and how to prepare them in the freshest, most presentable manner possible.

“Sure,” he calls back, as he glances at the basket. “Pear season, Marie-san?”

The lady at the counter grins. “Absolutely. My favourite.”

“Every fruit is your favourite, Marie-san.”

“Well, excuse me for liking all of ‘em!” 

Osamu turns his attention back to the fruits he needs to sort through and smiles a little as he picks up the first pear. It’s a pale green, speckled with faint brown dots at the top and bottom. He wonders if Kita-san would consider growing fruits like these, too, or if he’d maintain his focus on rice.

He picks up the knife and deftly makes incisions at the sides, splitting the pear into thin slices. His supervisor, Takagi Marie, particularly enjoys making floral decorations out of fruits, in particular, flower petals out of sliced apples or pears. It’s not Osamu’s intended speciality, but her dedication to the craft makes him want to find his own speciality, too.

Rice, and savoury dishes, maybe. He still cooks at home, on his days off. Atsumu eats with him sometimes.

On the fifth pear, he hears the faint jingle of the doorbell. 

“Hi...do you still have coffee, or are you sold out for the day?”

He freezes.

“Oh, we’re never sold out of coffee, darling!” 

“Ah. Right.”

Osamu tears his gaze away from the cutting board to the counter, where, standing in front of his boss, is Suna Rintarou, dressed in a white t-shirt and black shorts, sporting a small backpack.

 _He looks the same_ , Osamu thinks, before it occurs to him, _when was the last time I saw him?_

After graduation, they texted, less than before. Suna stopped swinging by their house on Fridays, or any day at all for that matter.

 _The last time_ – the last time was three Mondays ago, one month into his job, when Suna came in and bought a croissant and a cup of coffee.

_“You’re doing well,” he had said to him, coffee and pastry in hand._

_“I mean…” Osamu had laughed. “’S not my shop, I’m only the lowly scrub employee.”_

_He smiled faintly. “I know. I mean, you look happy.”_

_As he left the shop, Osamu had the fleeting thought that, maybe, he could be happier._

Out of the corner of his eye, Suna spots him, and a faint pink tinges the tip of his ears that peek out through his hair. 

“Ah- Samu.”

“Ri- _ah, shit-_ ”

A sharp pain runs through Osamu’s left hand, and he jerks back, recoiling his fingers. The knife clatters onto the cutting board. A thin white line, slowly turning red, runs across his thumb to the bottom part of his palm. 

Well, _fuck_ himself.

Immediately, Marie-san is by his side. “Oi! Are ya okay-” She grabs him and pushes him to the sink. “God, not on the pears!”

“Marie-san, the pears are fine,” he says weakly, pushing his hand over the sink. “I’m sorry, I let my hand slip-”

Marie-san clicks her tongue. “Miya. Of _course_ ya hands are more important than them pears, goodness,” she mutters, glancing at the cutting board, which is thankfully entirely clean. “Our hands are the assemblers of food, ya gotta take care of ‘em…” 

Osamu’s mind buzzes as he goes through the notions of washing and drying the cut, registering halfway that _Suna’s_ also here, watching it play out-

His thoughts are cut short by a warm hand cupping his shoulder and pushing him to the nearest chair. “Careless,” Suna whispers, grabbing a pouch out of his bag and digging out the antiseptic. “Jesus, where’s your head, Samu?”

“I got distracted,” Osamu mutters back, letting Suna take his hand and examine it. “Why d’you have a first aid kit with ya?”

Suna sighs. “It’s mine, you idiot,” he says, though there’s no bite to it. “I carry it around for practice.”

It’s with a twinge of guilt that Osamu lets Suna handle his palm and check for any stray cuts. Suna doesn’t talk to him about practice. 

His boss sighs from across the counter. “Can I count on ya to fix him up, dear?”

“He’ll be fine, it’s just a cut. But it’s across the palm, so, uh, I’m not sure if he can touch anything for food preparation.”

Osamu glances at her apologetically. “Sorry again, Marie-san.”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay, Miya,” she says. “Ya almost done for the day anyway. Go home.” She glances at Suna, twinkle in her eye. “Ya still wanna get that coffee to-go?”

Suna’s lips quirk upward in amusement. “One latte, please.”

In a world full of horrible bosses, Takagi Marie is queen.

When she turns her back to them, Suna whispers to him, “She still calls you ‘ _Miya’_?”

“She doesn’t know Tsumu, so I guess that works for her.”

He hums in reply, gaze still fixed on his hand.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, pulling him to the back. “I’ll fix you up.”

———

With the initial chaos of the situation dissipated, it dawns on Osamu that this is the most time he’s spent with Suna in the past two months.

“Hey,” Suna says, seated in the chair next to him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I…” Osamu winces as Suna dabs antiseptic ointment on his palm. “I’m fine. Sorry ‘bout this.”

“Mmm.”

“I mean, this usually doesn’t happen.”

At this, Suna laughs just a little, and it fills Osamu with an odd, warm feeling. 

“I sure hope so,” he says, softly, as he fishes out the gauze and roll of tape. “If not, I can’t imagine who’ll have to baby you each time.”

Osamu’s eyes follow Suna’s movements as he wraps his hand with the gauze. His touch is surprisingly gentle, he thinks, faintly.

“I’m a perfectly responsible adult.”

“Hmmm.”

As Suna brings the roll of tape around the tip of his thumb and slowly moves down in a spiral, Osamu notices that his own fingers are taped, his left index and middle fingers taped together, a bruise forming at the knuckle. _He’s been training_ ; he thinks, a pang of guilt and _something else_ hitting him squarely in the chest. 

“Are you…okay?” he asks tentatively, as Suna brings the tape to his palm.

“Me?” Suna doesn’t falter with his movements, but he doesn’t respond immediately. 

“I’m okay.”

He snips off the loose end of the tape, and brings the corner back in. 

“What about you?”

Suna’s fingers are tender against his as he completes the wrap and checks it, gently pressing at the sides with his indexes to tuck the loose edges in. 

“I like what I’m doin’. So, yeah, I’m okay.”

“As expected of a gourmet idiot.”

“Better than bein’ a volleyball idiot.”

He catches a glimpse of a smile. A small, small smile by way of a quirk of the lips and softening of the eyes, lasting no more than a split second before it settles, quickly, into the fabric of his skin.

It’s…affectionate.

“Are you eating well?” Osamu asks.

Suna pats the top of his hand slowly, rhythmically, eyes trailing the edge of the tape that disappears round the curve of his wrist.

“Could be better,” he says, so softly that if Osamu weren’t so close to him, it would have been lost. “What, trying to make me say that I miss your cooking?”

He says nothing, letting his hand be cradled. Suna’s fingers trace his bandaged palm, not quite letting go.

The room fills with silence.

“What if I do,” Suna murmurs, “miss your cooking?”

Osamu feels his fingers pause and rest on his, his pulse thrumming rapidly.

“I…” he glances at Suna, who refuses to meet his eye. “Rin, you do?”

Suna, whose hands are still holding his, doesn’t answer.

“Rin…” he moves his hand carefully, touching the tips of Suna’s fingers. “Ya never told me. Ya just stopped comin’ and ya didn’t say anything.” 

“How could I?” Suna shakes his head. “It’s selfish of me.”

He looks up, catching Osamu’s gaze.

“I leave in three weeks, you know.”

For Shizuoka, and all over Japan, maybe the world. That much, Osamu knows.

“I couldn’t get used to that comfort, if it’s something I had to leave behind.”

His heart.

It aches.

“I miss it too, y'know.” Osamu mutters. “Cooking for ya.”

Suna’s hands tense up against his. Osamu can feel his pulse quicken. 

“Then, what?” Suna says, voice hardly a whisper. “What do you mean?”

Osamu stretches out with his good hand. “I dunno, Rin,” he says, palm cupping the side of Suna’s face. His cheek is warm; so is his, the flush creeps up his neck to his ears. 

“I think I missed ya.”

Suna’s eyes widen, and he trembles against his touch, cheek pressing against his hand.

“ _What_ ,” he repeats slowly, “do you mean?”

Osamu rubs his thumb over Suna’s cheek, and realises that he, too, is trembling. 

“If ya didn’t have to go, I’d…” What _would_ he do? Kiss him?

“But I _am_ going. What’re you gonna do about it?”

As they stare at each other, it dawns on Osamu, that this the same impasse that they reached, the last time they spoke like this. 

Suna exhales shakily.

“You’re selfish too, Samu, you know that?” he says, thickly. “You can’t have it all.”

Osamu pulls back, startled, when he realises his cheek is wet to the touch.

“I’m sorry, don’t cr-”

“No, I’m sorry,” Suna says tersely, withdrawing his hands from his grasp, leaving Osamu’s palm exposed. “I’m sorry I overstepped. Just…forget that this happened.”

“I can’t just _forget_ ,” Osamu argues. “What are we, Rin? One moment we were friends and then we weren’t. What are we now?”

Suna shakes his head. “You tell me,” he says, “because I don’t know what you want. The last time I asked you, you didn’t know either.”

Osamu stiffens. “I didn’t know because it was _hard_ , and it _still is hard_ , to know what ya want! It’s complicated, ya know it. We can’t just- I can’t just-”

“It’s alright,” Suna stands up. “I get it, I’m not worth it. I get it.”

Osamu stands too, eyes wide. “That’s not what I mean, and ya know it.”

“No,” Suna says hoarsely. “I don’t. And you’re right. It’s complicated, and we can’t just…dive into it. _You_ can’t. It’s just…give me some time, okay?” 

“Ya know I didn’t mean it like that.” Osamu follows him to the door. “Rin, listen-”

Suna grips the doorknob and stares at him. The words in Osamu’s mouth fall away.

“Bye, Osamu.”

The door slams shut before Osamu realises that both his hands are balled into fists.

It stings. Badly.

———

After ignoring five calls from his brother, Osamu slumps onto his bed in defeat. Technically, it’s Atsumu’s, but who gives a shit, especially when he’s not here.

He raises his hand to the ceiling and stares at the neatly-wrapped wound on his palm.

_You’re selfish too, Samu, you know that?_

He closes his eyes, breathing deeply. 

He’s right.

It aches.

“ _Samu, ya better be there-_ ”

His eyes split open at the sound. _Tsumu?_

He hears stomping, followed by aggressive hammering on the door. “ _Oi, Samu!_ ”

Groaning, he sits up. “What?”

“ _SAMU! God dammit- ya-_ ” The hammering intensifies. “ _Dammit- why didja lock this fuckin’ thing-_ ”

“Be coherent, for fuck’s sake…” 

He trudges up and opens the door to an unexpectedly furious Miya Atsumu.

“ _You_ ,” Atsumu yells, tackling him onto the bottom bunk and pinning him down. “What in the fresh _hell_ do ya think you’re doing?!”

“What?!” Samu struggles back, but Atsumu’s made his approach from an advantageous angle, not to mention he’s incapacitated, and Atsumu seems to know this. “What the fuck- _Tsumu_ -”

“No, ya listen ta me, Samu!” Atsumu shakes his shoulders vigorously, brows knitted in frustration. “Why do ya always gotta make things more complicated when they hafta be, huh?”

Irritation prickles on the surface of his skin. “Stay outta my personal life, you _ass_ ,” he hisses, “ya don’t have the right to lecture me; ya don’t know jack _shit_ -”

“Idiot! I know everything.” Atsumu scoffs, glaring right back at him. “I know you made a mistake, and you needa fix it before Suna gives up on ya.” His eyes narrow. “You pushed him away, even though that’s not what ya want. Not even _close_. So I’m gonna ask you this: What. In the _fresh_ hell. Do ya think ‘yer doing?”

Osamu falters. “Ya…spoke to Rin?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu says fervently. “ _Yeah_ , Samu, I talked to him and watched him cry for like, ten minutes, which begs the question, _what the fuck_.”

Osamu feels himself going numb, and maybe something in his face shows, because Atsumu takes a long, hard look at him before sighing and releasing his grip on him.

“Look, I’m not here to hold an intervention for ya, or whatever,” he says, quietly, as he sits up next to him. “It’s just, ya don’t just get to come back and mope after breaking someone’s heart, yanno.”

Osamu is hit with a horrible, violent jolt of dread.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, sitting up, before he can think about it. “No, wait, I mean-”

“But ya did.” Atsumu’s gaze is much less angry than it is reproachful. “Samu, in the end, ya did.”

“It’s not like that.” Osamu feels his voice crack, and tries again. “I didn’t mean that. Ya know I didn’t mean that.”

“Then, what?” 

“Then-” Osamu hesitates, apprehension pooling in his stomach. “I really like him.” 

He inhales sharply, the realisation dawning on him like a sugar cube dissolving into a cup of hot tea.

“Tsumu. I think I might love him.”

“ _Then_ ,” his brother says, “stop bein’ a coward, and fuckin’ tell him that.” 

“’S not that easy-”

“You’ve been sayin’ that for _forever_ ,” Atsumu says sharply, jabbing a finger in his chest. “But the longer ya let this shit drag, the less easy it gets, and ya know it. If ya really love him, tell him that. Work for it, ya scrub.”

His eyes sting with realisation. “I know,” he says, and then quieter, “I know.”

Atsumu glances at him, and his expression softens. 

“C’mere.”

Osamu stares at him as he stretches out his arms.

“For…what?”

His twin sighs, turns to him, and grabs him into a hug. 

“For bein’ my brother, ya idiot,” he says, quietly. “Do ya really needa ask?”

And no, Osamu doesn’t, has never needed to, but as brothers they don’t hug often. 

“Why now,” he asks, feeling the sting of fresh tears in his eyes. “Why this?”

“You hugged me on graduation day, last year, and now I’m huggin’ ya back,” Atsumu mutters. “Payback.”

“Ya idiot, that’s not what payback is.” Osamu says thickly.

“It is. Now shut up while I hug ya.”

The two sit like that in a comfortable silence for a while, before Atsumu pushes him away, looking like he might cry himself. 

“Sap.”

“Yer the sap.”

Osamu smiles weakly at Atsumu, who sniffs and turns away.

“He’ll be at the nearby gym tomorrow. Practice ends at 6. Don’t say I didn’t help ya.”

———

Unexpectedly, Kita calls him the next morning. If Atsumu blabbed to him about his internal crisis, he doesn’t show it, and instead asks him about how his work is going.

“It’s okay,” Osamu says, slightly confused. “I’m learning a lot.” He decides not to mention the cut.

His senior hums. “ _And are ya any closer to understanding what it is that ya wanna do?_ ”

“Um.” Yup, he’s confused all right. “I wanna share the love of food with my own cooking…and that’s really it…?” 

“ _Let me ask you this, then-_ ” Kita replies. “ _What kind of feeling do you want people to have when they eat your food?_ ”

It clicks.

“Home,” he says, instinctively. “I wanna recreate the taste of home.”

“ _Home,_ ” Kita echoes. “ _And, what is home?_ ”

He realises that he does have his answer. 

“Warmth. Somethin’ that soothes and welcomes you. Somethin’ you can return to.” 

A simple comfort, really, but one you wouldn’t want to live without.

Kita seems pleased. “ _Good,_ ” he says. “ _Keep at it. And, Osamu?_ ”

“Uh, yes, Kita-san?”

“ _Think to yourself, who and what ‘warmth’ means to you. And don’t forget it._ ”

Osamu shivers. He doesn’t know how, but the man _knows_.

“I…thank you, Kita-san…?”

Kita laughs, gently.

“ _You’ll be alright, Osamu._ ”

———

He finds himself sitting on a bench outside the gym in the main hallway, fingers drumming against his thighs nervously, as he wills time to pass. 

It’s just a little past 6. Knowing Suna, he’ll be the first one in and out of the shower, which means he should be out within minutes.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. For all he knows, he’ll take one look at him and run away, and it’d be impossible to catch him because the boy runs impossibly fast. Or maybe he’ll yell at him. He doesn’t know. He didn’t really think of a plan. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters under his breath, dropping his fingers. His gaze hovers over his left palm where his cut sits, having been neatly wrapped by Atsumu. It still stings, a little. He can’t move his thumb properly yet.

It surprises some that his brother can be meticulous with things like bandages on fingers, but that’s precisely his gift – sometimes people forget that, underneath that obnoxious personality, his conscientiousness and attention to detail are some of his strongest traits.

Atsumu’s taping technique, however, is long forgotten by Osamu. His memory’s fixated on Suna’s touch, the gentle press of his fingers etched in his mind-

Osamu shuts his eyes. He’s _screwed_ , and he didn’t even know it.

The creaking of the gym door shakes him out of his thoughts. Quickly, he straightens up, glancing at the hallway with bated breath. Six people walk out, carrying water bottles and chatting, and behind them, he sees a seventh, familiar figure pass through, having the door hang open with a kick of the foot.

Osamu gulps in a poor attempt to swallow his apprehension. He shouldn’t shout, right? That’d just be rude and Atsumu-esque. He can’t do that.

Instead, he does what he knows Suna can’t ignore.

**Samu**

Hey, look to your left.

Like clockwork, he watches as Suna’s phone buzzes and lights up in his pocket. Suna dips his hand into his pocket and swipes, before his eyes widen. 

He glances to his left, head turning, and catches Osamu’s gaze.

 _You_ , he mouths, eyes wide.

 _Me_ , Osamu points to himself, and mouths back.

From a distance, he sees Suna regain his composure and mutter something to the others in the crowd. The girls smile and wave as they walk on ahead.

Osamu approaches him carefully as Suna turns around fully, slowly. 

“You,” Suna murmurs. “What are you…”

Osamu waves feebly. “Hi, Rin.”

“Hi…”

Suna stares at him blankly. 

“How did you know I’d be here?” 

Osamu looks down at his feet. “Tsumu told me,” he admits, looking back up, as Suna lets out a huff.

“That jerk…”

“That jerk got me here for a reason.” Osamu steps closer. “Look, Rin, I came to talk to you.”

In the distance, four more people exit the hall; the last one out flicks the light switch for the gymnasium and gives them a wave as they disappear from view.

Suna twists his fingers nervously, but doesn’t make to move, his eyes fixed on Osamu.

“Samu, if this is about yesterday-”

“It is. But it’s also about March. And about the entire year before that.”

Suna’s gaze wavers. Osamu just wants to hold his hands all over again.

“I’m sorry for yesterday. And for everything.”

At this, Suna’s expression hardens, and he takes a step back. “Okay, if you’re gonna keep saying sorry, I’d rather not hear it-”

“Hear me out, will ya!”

Osamu reaches out and catches Suna’s forearm, encircling it as he lets his fingers fall to Suna’s wrist without resistance.

Look, Rin-” he swallows. “I needa tell you now, that I’m in love with you.”

Suna blinks at him, once, twice, eyes widening, lips parted in shock. 

Osamu feels his heart pounding, his vision narrowing on Suna and Suna only.

“I’m in love with ya,” he repeats, soft and sincere. “I am. I wanna date ya. Can we?”

Suna doesn’t move an inch. “I swear, Samu,” he whispers fiercely, “if you’re _fucking_ with me right now-”

“I’m not.” Osamu leans closer, heart hammering against his chest. “Ya asked me before, what it is that I want. When ya asked me then, I didn’t know, but now, I do.” 

He takes a deep breath.

“I want you in my life.”

This is not an apology. This is a confession. 

“So, I don’t care if we’re not gonna be in the same place at the same time always, okay?” Osamu tugs at Suna, who tips forward, and loops his other wrist with his left hand gingerly. “I don’t care. It was dumb of me to think that way. I’m happier with you in my life, wherever ya are.”

Suna’s eyes are a watery olive. “Okay,” he utters, peeling Osamu’s left hand off his wrist and wiping at his eyes. “Okay. You fucker.” 

“What’s that now?” 

“You-” Suna jabs a finger into at his chest. “-absolute dirtbag, you piece of shit off the sole of my shoe, twin of Miya fucking Atsumu-”

He stops as he steps an inch closer. Osamu’s close enough to see the droplets of water hanging off the tips of his damp, showered hair, remnant of tears clinging to his eyelashes and waterline, the curve of his irises and sharp line of his lips, the fierceness in his gaze rapidly dissipating. 

“You…” Suna’s expression softens. “You jerk. I can’t believe you’re confessing to me in the public gym.” He drops his finger. “And I can’t believe I’m just going to say yes.”

“ _Yes?_ ” Osamu breathes. 

“ _Yes_ , like-” Suna reaches for his hand, fingers grazing across his bandaged palm as they encircle it in a tender grip. “Like, _let’s date_ , yes. Like, _I’m in love with you_ , yes.”

Osamu’s fingers slip from Suna’s other wrist to hold his hand. Fresh out of the shower, Suna’s fingers are bare, calloused, and tinged with cold.

Warm or cold, Osamu thinks, he’d like to hold his hands more often.

“I shoulda said something,” he says, softly, “on that day you picked that cherry blossom petal out of my hair.”

Suna stares back at him, eyes wide. 

“Well, you sure took your time,” he tries to say coolly, betrayed by the waver in his voice. “Still taking your time, actually, seeing how we’re just standing around here-”

Osamu pulls him in close, cutting him off. “Rin.”

He hears Suna’s breath stutter. “...Samu.”

“Is it okay if I kiss ya?”

Because he wants to, he really wants to.

Suna laughs faintly as he leans in, lashes slowly fluttering closed.

“If you’re going to do it,” he whispers. “Do it now.”

Suna’s laughter echoes softly in his ears as Osamu leans in and meets him halfway.

Osamu has kissed three people in his existence to-date: his classmate Haruka-chan in his third year of middle school, a boy he went on a date with at the end of his first year of high school, and Aran-kun, once, in a game of spin the bottle at the third years’ graduation party.

Kissing Suna is different in ways that he can’t quite coherently explain, for reasons that escape him the moment he closes his eyes and presses his lips to his. The effect is instantaneous – a wave of relief washes over him, the same time as a warmth rushes up his neck and to his cheeks, something that he’s just dimly aware of as he leans in closer to bask in the sensation that is Suna’s lips, warm and soft against his.

They kiss tentatively at first, Suna stilling in his movement, but as Osamu tilts his head to deepen the kiss, Suna sighs and presses back, fingers loosening from his grip and reaching for his torso. His hands press into him, bunching into his t-shirt as Osamu reaches to cup his face, fingers brushing against his jaw and into his hair as he moves even closer, mind filled with nothing but urgent and insistent thoughts about how he needs to chase that warmth in Suna’s grasp and he needs to chase it _now_.

As Osamu meanders his other hand onto Suna’s shoulder and towards his neck, he flits his tongue out, brushing against his lips, seeking permission. Suna relents, melting into the kiss as his lips part, his breaths hot and shallow against Osamu’s mouth as his head tilts and he leans further in, content to let Osamu dart his tongue in and roam. Some of his fingers slip under the side of his shirt and graze his skin and Osamu almost, _almost_ loses himself in the moment, the only reminder of the present a dull ache in his left palm which he ignores as he brushes Suna’s nape with his fingers, eliciting a long-drawn whine which escapes through his mouth, drowned out by the soft but desperate moving of lips and tongues.

Suna is the first to pull back, gasping as they break apart. 

“We could…” he breathes hard, cheeks flushed, “we could’ve been doing this, all this while?”

Osamu’s mind is buzzing. “We could’ve,” he breathes back, “but I was busy being stupid.”

“Yeah,” Suna snakes his arms around his waist and doesn’t let go. “Yeah, stupid.” His gaze settles on Osamu’s lips like he’d like nothing better but to kiss him on the mouth again, but be it by sheer willpower or exhaustion, he stills, swaying slightly as he brings his gaze to meet Osamu’s.

Osamu kisses his temple, fingers straying onto Suna’s cheek, and Suna closes his eyes.

“They’re olive,” he murmurs, resting his forehead on Suna’s own.

Suna, still slightly dazed, leans into the touch. “Huh?”

“Your eyes. The colour always looks different under different lighting, but they’re actually olive, aren’t they?”

His eyes flutter open. “…I can’t believe you’ve been staring into my eyes all year. That’s so cheesy.”

Osamu laughs. “Do you hate it?”

Suna pulls back slightly to face him, leaving a cool spot on his forehead. “No,” he murmurs, fingers trailing his sides, twisting into his t-shirt. “I don’t.” 

They stay like this for a while, Osamu’s arms around Suna’s shoulders, Suna’s arms around Osamu’s waist, neither of them saying anything. It’s warm, quiet and soothing all at once.

“Hey, Rin?”

“Mmm?”

“…I’m sorry.”

Suna buries his head in Osamu’s neck. “I’m sorry too,” he says, breath warm against Osamu’s shoulder. “We good?”

Osamu nods. “We good.”

A pause sails between them before Suna raises his head.

“So, what now? We date?”

“Yeah.” 

“And when I leave Hyogo, we continue to date?”

“…Yeah.” Osamu tilts his head. “Do ya want to?”

Suna’s breath tickles the side of his face. “I mean,” He lifts a hand and brushes his fingers over Osamu’s cheek. “I’d sound like a real idiot if I said I don’t, wouldn’t I.”

Osamu hums. 

“Then let’s. Today, next week, next year, the year after that.”

“You’re thinking ahead,” Suna says, pulling away, but he’s smiling, a tender, genuine smile that fills Osamu with a soft warmth and makes him think that everything’s going to be okay. 

He smiles back.

“So, dinner?”

He takes his hand in his. 

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

———

**Samu**

[image: It’s a selfie of Osamu and Suna at the department store, taken in the reflection of a glass panel. Suna’s holding a taiyaki in a paper packet in one hand, making a peace sign with the other. Osamu’s holding the phone in one hand, his other arm slung around Suna’s shoulders. His left hand makes a modified peace sign which looks more like a finger gun. They’re both smiling – just a little, just enough for Atsumu to see.]

**Tsumu**

Yer WELCOME

Now get that sappy shit outta my face

**Samu**

Stay lonely, Tsumu

**Author's Note:**

>  _Ya thought I was gonna make a graduation confession, huh_  
>  (I was, but I decided not to. Not sure why but I really enjoyed writing the part in-between.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I’ve, erm, started writing the next 3 parts...haha…
> 
> I have many author’s notes tucked in my dumb mind but I’ll just leave a few here, and if you’d like to yell with/at me about this or the haikyuu in general, I have a tiny twitter account [here](https://twitter.com/yuzubalm) if u wanna say hi
> 
> 1\. Oyako don: the first thing that comes to mind when I think "home cooked japanese meal". Tamagoyaki = japanese egg roll. When done well, it can make you shed tears.  
> 2\. I make Kita say a lot of amazing shit that I really should apply to my personal life…  
> 3\. I have shifted the EJP to Shizuoka. THANK YOU to the person who commented!!!!!  
> 4\. I originally wanted Samu to work at a soba shop but I thought that it’d be more interesting if Samu worked with dough and desserts first, to warm his hands up. Samu's boss is good. She's fond of Samu. We’re all fond of Samu.  
> 5\. If you’re wondering, Atsumu’s B-Side to this story will be a part of this series. I wrote a third of it already, haha. Some parts will connect.  
> 6\. Pinning down Osamu’s narrative style was not easy. Atsumu’s perspective might be slightly easier for me to pick apart because I relate to him a bit more. Let me know what you think…?  
> 7\. I did not intend to make reference to their hands this much...?  
> 8\. Can you tell that I’m still wondering who Atsumu’s endgame should be for this series? 
> 
> Thank you so much again, and I hope you’ll stick around for the next couple of bits.


End file.
